


to whomst it may concern

by rhythmic



Category: No Fandom
Genre: Free Verse, Gen, Poetry, Unsent letters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-06
Updated: 2019-05-08
Packaged: 2020-02-26 22:43:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18726346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhythmic/pseuds/rhythmic
Summary: a collection of purposefully vague letters to people in my life.[i really have no idea what this is. read it if you'd like.]





	1. american boy

dear american boy,  
do you remember me?  
i didn’t think so,  
because when i look into your eyes,  
there’s nothing there.  
not for me.

(it wasn’t always this way.)

we were friends once,  
back when everything was different  
and boys and girls could hold hands  
without being told they were in love.  
we played together in the kitchen.  
it was a restaurant,  
our restaurant,  
and we made food  
for imaginary customers.  
at least that’s what our mothers tell us.

(we don’t know what we are to each other anymore.)

so we smile,  
attempt to make awkward conversation,  
and i never say the things i wish i could:  
i’m sorry that your father wants you to be a man  
when you’re still just a boy.  
i’m sorry that your mother forgets about the space  
in “girl friend”  
because she wants so badly for you to have one.  
i’m sorry that your sister rolls her eyes  
when you talk about your favorite things.

(i know what it’s like to feel alone.)

and i’m sorry if i scared you that night.  
i must’ve looked a fright,  
hair mussed, eyes wide,  
sweat dripping down the small of my back,  
but i wanted so badly for you to like me,  
you see.

(i still do.)

don’t worry, by the way.  
i won’t tell anybody  
about the way you look at  
your best friend.  
but just so you know,  
he’s looking at you too.

(it's okay to be in love.)


	2. tallulah

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sometimes, home isn't a place. sometimes it is. sometimes it's both.

dear tallulah,

you were home. 

home in the nervous excitement  
of the beginning  
when we woke quickly,  
to the sound of feet thundering  
along the hollow wooden floor.  
you pulled me out of bed  
and into your heady vanilla embrace  
and i breathed you in.  
we were young then, and reckless,  
and we knew that it wouldn't last  
but we pretended that it would.

home in the golden light of morning,  
when we sat on dew-dampened wood  
and watched the sun  
as she rose from the lake,  
water dripping from her glowing skin.  
when it was time, we stood up as one,  
arms linked and faces already flushed  
and our laughter echoed across the calm.

home in the middle,  
when there was so much to do  
that we didn't know what to do first.  
so we did everything.  
and we did it together.  
when we climbed the mountain  
and sat at the top,  
marveling at all we could see.  
when we ate out of plastic bags  
and off of bushes  
and found plastic animals in the woods.  
we never left each other's sides  
and when your body ached  
i walked beside you the whole way.

home in the hot stillness  
of the late afternoon,  
when we paddled into the middle of the lake.  
the sun was in the middle of the sky  
and we were out so far  
that we couldn't see where we'd begun.  
we weren't scared, though.  
we laid on our backs and floated,  
listened to the buzzing symphony of cicadas.  
our eyes were closed, our hunger sated,  
our bodies submerged in the cool depths.  
it was then that i told you everything,  
and you told me all there was to know.  
somehow, we'd both known all along.

home in the quiet drift of the evening,  
when the sky was just beginning to darken.  
we donned our colors, our disguises,  
and ran from one end to the other.  
we chased geese and found gold,  
collected all the colors;  
and when we were done,  
we sat in front of the spitting fire.  
we sang, we laughed, we told stories,  
and we cried too.  
we cried for what we knew we'd lose,  
because two weeks seems like a long time,  
but it feels shorter with each passing day.

home in the soft dark of night,  
when we snuck out, giggling,  
and crunched through the damp grass  
to the old wooden dock.  
our lanterns cast light onto our faces,  
making them strange and sharp.  
we held hands and spoke softly again,  
and we made promises we couldn't keep,  
and the water lapped at the sands of the shore.  
we knew we'd never see each other again  
but the truth hurt, so we covered it with a beautiful lie.

dear tallulah,

you were home.


End file.
